


M is for...

by Sheffield



Series: M is for... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:32:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheffield/pseuds/Sheffield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are kidnapped.  But what started out as a domestic... ends as a domestic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M is for...

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he berated himself. Of course the taxi had stopped around the corner, and of course Sherlock had gone out of the door like a racehorse out of the traps, and of course he had been left behind to pay the fare. So when someone stepped out of the shadows and threw a bag over Sherlock's head, John's hand had been uselessly trapped inside the cab, hampered by the handful of coins he was holding and gripped by an implacable, well-muscled hand {how did I not notice the muscles, he thought? Sherlock was right. No-one notices the cabby.}

And then someone else stuck a gun in the small of his back and he was trapped, pinned like a bug. He saw Sherlock was still fighting but there were four of them - and they were incredibly well trained - and in the end they simply picked Sherlock up and threw him into a van.

"Come along, Dr Watson."  
They pulled him back into the cab, but at least they were following the van that held Sherlock. He sat still between his captors and then gave a huff of sarcastic laughter.  
"Lot of trouble to go to... you couldn't just have, you know, driven us wherever we're going?"  
No-one answered. But they were still following the van carrying Sherlock, so he remained still.

Fifteen miles or so and they were out of London altogether, into the Surrey countryside, and drawing up to a Georgian house with a couple of acres of grounds. The van peeled off to one side and the gun stuck into his side again. "Servants entrance," the man on his right said laconically. "You'll see him in a minute."

They led him into the house, sat him in a high backed chair at an ordinary dining table in a room with a view of the park... and those thick, bullet-proof windows with the spoiler screens that prevent laser audio surveillance. Hmmm.

Riot cuffs, but they cuffed his hands in front of him. Only a token gesture.

Sherlock was still fighting when they brought him in, still blinded by the thick black material over his head and neck, and there were six of them now, all fighting hard to... contain him without hurting him, John realised.

Someone came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, another on his elbow and, quicker than thought, popped the joint and he heard himself groan. Sherlock instantly stilled. "John?" he said. "Sit down, Sherlock, and Doctor Watson will be quite OK."

Sherlock suffered himself to be put into the chair opposite John, his legs and arms bound to the chair's with riot cuffs. Then the bag was pulled off and his sharp eyes took in the room, the men, and John.

"Sorry," John said.

One of their captors tapped his earpiece. "Ready for you, M."  
All of their captors except the one standing behind John's chair turned and left and there was a moment's tense silence.  
The middle aged woman who came into the room surprised both of them but it was Sherlock who said, irritably, "Mummy!"  
"Sherlock." she acknowledged. "I heard from Mycroft that you'd taken up with Dr Watson here. I can't say that I approve."  
"Oh?"  
"Don't take that tone with me. Dr Watson is a valuable resource. Far too valuable to waste his time running around London getting himself kidnapped by your latest nemesis. And, frankly, aren't you a little old to be having a nemesis? Or an arch enemy? Really, Sherlock!"

"Er.. can I say something?" John ventured.  
The woman - M - turned towards him and he quietly slipped out of the riot cuffs. "I don't work for you any more, M, remember? So what I do with my time is actually none of your business."

He used a move that Tamara had taught him and swept his leg backwards, at the same time using a well-timed elbow to drive all the breath out of his shadow's body and pivot him face-first into the table with a resounding *thwack*.

"Really, James," he said irritably, "you're getting old!" He picked Bond's pocket and started cutting Sherlock free with 007's tiepin/pocketknife.

"Double o three! I insist you stop this at once!"  
"My name is John Watson, I haven't been double o since the Beka valley, and - as I think we've established - I don't work for you any more. Sherlock? Ready to go?"

Sherlock's face was - for the first time in Dr John Watson's experience - a picture of astonishment. But when his blogger turned on his heel and left, he had enough of his wits left to follow.

"Sherlock Holmes! You listen to me! You *will* call me once a month. And you *will* remember the fifteenth."  
Sherlock paused.  
"The fifteenth?"  
His face was white as alabaster.  
"The fifteenth. It's her birthday. Her eightieth birthday. I suggest you order the cards and flowers now, and spend some time deciding on something extremely special to buy her. You do NOT want to answer to... Grandma!"

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as an "unnamed comment fic". I thought I'd better give it a title. But in my head, Judy Dench is Mycroft and Sherlock's mother. And I'm pretty sure that June Brown is Grandma...


End file.
